Draga
by sisterstyx
Summary: D/OC-Dracula survives the events of the films and moves to France for a more sedate life. There, he gives his heart to a small child that grows into a stunning woman. Will Van Helsing save her from a monster or will she save a monster from himself? M/F
1. A new life

**Dracula adopts a small child as his sister in the** **French Loire Valley.**

**She becomes more precious to him than anything in the world but he must remain ever the wolf in sheep's clothing, watching her grow and blossom into an amazing young woman. **

**When she returns from years abroad and encounters one Van Helsing in her travels, will he save her from her evil "brother" or will she be lost in the inevitable battle between good and evil?**

**On the eve of the Great War, with the world poised for a battle bigger than their own, who's to say that "good" and "evil" are what they seem? **

**For, what neither Dracula nor Van Helsing account for, is what Ilona wants...**

* * *

><p>A dark figure stood in the cold, lightless husk of a building. It had once been a great castle; it had once held his dreams, his future. But it was gone. They had all been killed, taken from him before he ever really had them. He himself had perished in the struggle, but the legends had lied. Nothing could kill him, not permanently. His body could burn to ash and yet there was always enough of a spark for his rebirth, like some dark immortal phoenix.<p>

He would simply have to start anew. He had done it before, he would simply have to do it again. Maybe this time he would leave his home country; venture out and see more of the world. All this place held for him was death and loss and hatred. And memories. He could still smell the blood, still hear the Monster's screams, feel the static electricity vibrate in the air. He could recall the final battle blow for blow, feel the life ripped out of him with razor-like teeth. He could imagine her lying there, lifeless, content to meet her family in the afterlife.

He was done with this life. At least for a while. No brides, no werewolves, no minions. He would take a portion of his sizable wealth and go away for a few decades to live a little more simply. He was too heartbroken and world weary to try again anytime soon. All he wanted was a family, but God still sought to deny him this one earthly joy. He would return someday, he knew. This was his homeland, his people. He had been a hero once and vowed he would be again. But not now, not for many years. He would wait for a few generations to turn memory into myth and forget the terror he had wreaked. He could afford to wait, he couldn't die after all.

He had been in France for a few months now. He had bought a sizable chateau in the Loire, not far from Nantes, and had a regular staff to come maintain the estate and surrounding grounds. He tried not to stir up any trouble in the local village, but a wealthy recluse seen only at night gives rise to rumors, no matter how well behaved and careful he may be. And, for him, he was being very well behaved. He killed few and those whose lives he did take were not missed.

He spent most of his time reading or walking along the river. He was just a few hours ride from Paris, a city he had always wanted to visit, and had enjoyed the City of Lights and its new _Tour Eiffel_ which stretched so high into the sky as to be impossible. It had proven to him, once again, that the world was not a stagnant place and that humanity continued to change and evolve while he remained, ever, the same. He did not spend many days in the great city for fear of drawing attention to himself. No doubt a certain Holy Order had spread renderings of his image to all of its operatives—he had no desire to alert them of his continued existence.

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><p>It was on a sweltering July evening in 1889 when he was surprised to hear a frantic knocking on his front door. He ignored it as he could not imagine who could be seeking him out in the middle of the evening and he kept no butler or other staff at night. Yet the pounding continued and he felt somehow compelled to put down his tome and walk the long marbled halls of his house to see his surprise guest. As he opened the door, cold sneer in place, he was astonished by what he found.<p>

A young woman, not much older than 20 was leaning heavily against his door frame. Her face glistened with sweat and her breathing was obviously labored. She clutched a bundle to her chest and struggled to stand when he gave her a pointed look.

"_S'il vous plait, Monsieur, _I am in dire need of your help." He could tell immediately that she was beyond help. She was rank with the smell of sweat and feces. Her face was flushed with fever and he could hear the too-slow rhythm of her heart, feebly attempting to keep her alive, despite the Typhoid. There had already been one or two cases in the village that summer; obviously it had found its latest victim.

"I cannot help you." He said definitively and turned to walk back inside. He had no fear of the disease but this woman could gain no salvation from him. From the looks of her, she probably wouldn't last the night.

"_Non, attendez!_" She yelled after him, clutching at his sleeve. He could have ripped her hand form her arm had he so desired. But he merely grimaced and looked at her over his shoulder. She sank to the ground, no longer able to support herself, one hand still clutching a pile of rags to her bosom. "I know I am beyond help. I will soon join my husband in Heaven." Her words were slurred and obviously cost her much effort. "But I have no other family and no one in the village will take her for fear of the fever." Her hand slipped from his sleeve as he turned to face her fully. It was then that she finally pulled the bundle from her chest.

Inside was a sleeping child.

"Please, take my daughter. Keep her safe, I beg of you." He stood in mute shock; the situation utterly shocking and foreign to him. A woman voluntarily offering for him to take her child? He almost laughed at the notion.

"_Madame_, I am no keeper of children. You must go elsewher—"

"_NON, vous ne comprenez pas!_ I have already tried, _Monsieur_, you are my last hope." He admired her determination despite the obvious pain she was in and the hints of delusion induced by the disease. She held up the child to him, pressing it into his arms. "Please, she is all I have." She whispered, her breaths coming in short, rattling puffs of moist air.

He had never held such a small child. He looked down at the sleeping face, the most innocent and pure of all things. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to turn up into a smile and felt his body begin to sway in a rocking motion he had never performed in his life. He considered it for a moment; a child, what he had always wanted. And not the undead spawn of his demonic brides, but a human child.

No. He could not take it. He would not taint something so pure. He motioned to give the child back when he saw the woman had collapsed, her hands stretched out to him, her cheek laying against the cold stone of his front step.

"_Merci, Monsieur. Merci_" She whispered.

"But I—" but he could hear her already weakened heart slow and sputter to a stop, her labored breaths going still in the hot night. She must have used up what little energy she had left to try and save her child, and was released from her suffering when she accomplished her last act on earth.

He stood in the doorway, babe in arm, dead woman at his feet and he took a moment to think. The babe shifted in his arms, a small hand freeing itself from the blankets, tiny fingers clutching at air. He instinctively put out a cold finger which the baby gladly took hold of. "Well, _Draga_, what shall I do with you?"

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><p>"Ina! Ina!" He called up the grand stairs. He could hear the approaching patter of small footsteps on the floor above.<p>

"_Oui, frate mia mare,_ I'm coming!" She appeared at the top of the stairs, and he could not help but smile up at her as she concentrated on walking down the stairs. Her small hand could just barely reach the banister and she had to put both little feet firmly on each step before proceeding to the next one.

How she had grown in five years, he thought. Her hair was a warm brown, her eyes a light sage green, her skin creamy but not pale. He let her spend too much time in the garden, her governess admonished him, but she so loved the flowers, she told him, and she had made friends with a family of pixies by one of the great willow trees along the river. Who was he to deny her the pleasure of a beautiful spring day? And through her, he felt as though he could see the sunlight glinting off the flowing waters as a warm breeze rustled the swaying boughs above her and her imaginary friends. Every night she would sit in his lap and describe the wild adventures she had had that day. He would listen with rapt attention before in turn telling her a story about the river or the gardens or his own homeland. She loved the ones about the forests of the Carpathian Mountains the best. He would tell her innocent tales of half truths, just enough to make her sparkling eyes open wide in childish wonder and fear. But he would finish the story and tickle her sides and her trance would end in fits of laughter. He had never known such contentment.

She finished coming down the stairs and ran to him, jumping into his waiting arms. "Thank you for the dress, _frate_." She said, blushing, as he carried her towards the dining hall.

"Well my little _draga_ must always look her best, especially on her birthday!" He, of course, had not known her true birthday, but had decided to make it the beginning of June, as she so reminded him of the days he could faintly remember from his youth, when spring would begin to bloom into summer. She was like the sun, rising in his life to banish dark, hollow memories and wicked desires. His world revolved around her, making her happy, educating her in his native tongue, French, English, Latin, Maths, Biology, Botany, History, Literature, Music, Art, and all things a proper young lady should know. They would spend hours every evening after dinner at lessons. While she would soon have tutors come to formally teach her during the day, he loved to see her work though problems or ask insightful questions.

"I want to be beautiful for _frate_." She said, her little arms clasped around his neck. She leaned forwards and placed a kiss on his cheek. He let out a chuckle before setting her down at her place for dinner.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon, my little Ilona." He said, truthfully. He crossed to the other end of the table and sat. A footman put food in front of each of them and he watched her over his steepled fingers as her little hands did their best to eat like a lady with the ornate silverware.

He ate only enough of the food served to him to continue to pass for human. He had told no one his true nature, not even his Ilona, but had instead striven to appear mortal, if a little bizarre. He had acquired a number of businesses with his almost inexhaustible funds and spent an hour or so a day reading and writing letters for his managers, expanding trade and beginning new projects. He pleaded a rare medical condition of sever sensitivity to sunlight to explain his absence during the day. His study was a windowless room in the center of the house with warm wood panels and rich fabrics, shelves of books, and a large heavy desk where he would write letters and keep track of his expenses. This room was attached the master bedroom where he made sure to rumple the sheets every night as though he had slept there when the maids came in the morning to remake it. The study also held a secret passageway to an underground stone room of decent size where he kept his coffin. This room was the only one in house the staff and Ilona knew nothing about, and he would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

After dinner they spent an hour or two at lessons. She always gave him her full attention, a difficult feet for a five-year-old, as though she were mesmerized. But he knew this was through no force or supernatural coercion. He would throw himself into the sunlight before he used her in such a way. No, she listened of her own free will and it made his cruel smirk turn into a genuine smile as years went on. As he began to see her eyelids droop, he ordered her to bed.

"I'm not tired," she argued; one small fist rubbed at her eye as he scooped her into his arms and carried her upstairs.

"Ah, but if you do not go to bed, I cannot give you your other present," he bribed. Her eyes it up and she clapped her hands.

"Another present! Yes please!" He set her down at the top of the stair and she ran down the hall to her room. He turned and went to his office to fetch the sketchpad and charcoals he had bought her the last time he'd been in Nantes. As he entered her bedroom he held her gifts behind his back and watched as she jumped onto her bed having changed out of hew new dress and put on her simple white nightgown. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers up and placing the gifts on her lap. She squealed in delight and threw her arms around his chest. He laughed and petted her head.

"_Merci beaucoup, frate_!" He stroked her hair for a moment before she peeled away, her face contorting into a yawn.

"Alright, now to bed with you, Ina." He put the papers and charcoals on her writing desk and turned down the light. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead but, as he turned to leave, one of her hands snuck out and grabbed at his sleeve. He had a sudden vision of five years previous, a dying woman begging her to care for this same child, and he was reminded of her fragility.

"_Frate_, stay here." She commanded and he obeyed. He lay on top of the rich fabrics and she curled into his chest as she did every night, her little fingers reaching out to twist a loose strand of his raven hair as was her habit. Before long, her breaths had evened out and her closed eyelids began to flutter gently. He hoped she dreamt of bright and innocent things and never of the cold darkness that hid in his soul.

After some time, he disentangled himself from her sweet embrace and crept from her room as he did every night. This was the most painful part of their atypical family life style; he would find himself alone in the house, waiting through the wee hours of the night for the welcoming embrace of the oblivion he found during the daylight hours. He decided to go to his office and get to that letter to one of his shippers in Paris he'd been putting off for a few days. He would not let the melancholy of his past life interfere with the magic of his current one. He was the sole caregiver of a blossoming young woman, and she was the first to see his soul.

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><p>He could tell there was something wrong as soon as he woke. As he made his way out of the secret passage into his study, there was a knock on the door. He crossed the room and opened the door to find Ilona's handmaid waiting anxiously for his answer.<p>

"_Monsieur, _thank God you're here. I was worried you might be in town."

"What is wrong, Jeanne?" She began quickly walking down the hall. Towards Ilona's room. His senses went on full alert and it took all his patience not to flash past the maid and rush to her side. He could smell sweat and vomit and a million fears flew through his mind.

"We called for _le docteur, Monsieur_, he will be here any moment." He almost tore down the door to get into her room and raced to her side where she lay in bed. "I found her like this a few moments ago when I came up to get her ready for dinner."

He sat on the edge of the bed and bent over her, a comforting smile forced on his face despite his fear. "Hello," she croaked, a genuine smile on her flushed face. She was covered in sweat and her hair was splayed out on the pillow behind her. Had he not had more on his mind, he would have loved to run a strand of it through his fingers as he so rarely saw her with it down anymore. A few years previously she had started to wear it in the tight, elaborate coiffures that were fashionable in Paris when he'd taken her when she was ten. She had marveled at the city, her hands grasping onto his arm, tugging him along to see the bridges and the Tower and to walk the boulevards and soak up the vibrancy of the great city. He could hardly believe it had already been four years since then, but now was not the time to dwell on happy memories.

"_Draga_, what is wrong?" He put an icy hand on her wet forehead and her eyes rolled back at the welcomed change in temperature. He could hear her labored breaths and saw that her hair and nightdress were soaked with sweat. The heat rolled off of her like she was a furnace. Her usually smiling soft lips were white and chapped, her cheeks an unhealthy red, and her eyes sunken dark.

"I'm sorry, _frate_, it's my fault," she whispered, fumbling slightly as she laid a fevered hand against his knee.

"She wanted to go into the village, _Monsieur_, we saw no harm in it." The handmaid said softly behind him, her voice reigning in grief at her young mistress' misfortune.

He spun around and would have leapt from the bed if Ilona's hand wasn't so hotly felt against his knee. "No harm! What do you call this?" He had to keep control of the sudden vicious urge to rip her head off and drain her dry for putting his Ina in danger. The maid finally broke down in tears and left the room, just as the village doctor came in.

"Don't be angry with her, _frate_, I wanted to get you _un cadeau de Noel_." She let out a terrible cough and gagged from the force, but her stomach had already been emptied, he could smell the acrid scent coming from her bedpan. It had snowed the day before and Ilona had convinced him to come out and play with her, though she was getting to be too old for such childish things. He could never deny her, however, and she new that he would relent if cajoled. So they had thrown balls of the frozen stuff at each other, her face flushed from activity, despite the cold, and he had laughed as though there was nothing better on earth. And, to him, nothing was.

The doctor approached the other side of the bed and bent over the patient. He took her pulse and listened to her breathing. He measured her temperature and asked her a few hushed questions. When the doctor had finished, he pulled him aside.

"_Comte_, I believe she is suffering from influenza. There have been a number of cases in the village already this winter and her symptoms fit. She is a bit old for the nausea, but it is not unheard of in a child of her age."

"What can I do for her, _Docteur_?" He pleaded. He had gone centuries being untouched by illness and now it threatened to steal everything from him.

"Give her plenty of fluids, for starters. But our main concern is the fever. If it gets much higher, it will be dangerous. Concentrate on lowering her body temperature and try to get her to drink; fruit juice, if you have it. I'll come back in the morning to check on her." With that, he tipped his hat and grabbed his bag. He thanked the doctor and told him a maid would pay him and show him the way out.

He crossed back to the bed and considered his options. First thing, he pulled back the heavy blankets covering her still form and opened the window to let in the cold winter air. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her nightstand and tipped some into her mouth. He instructed the distraught maid to go into town and buy some fruit to squeeze and then re-entered the sick-room. He bent over her to smooth the hair from her forehead and she turned her head into his hand and let out a soft moan, having been swept into unconsciousness while he conversed with the doctor.

His mind raced with what he more he could do for her. The cool air was slowly filling the room, but he feared it would take too long. She lay exposed on the bed, her thin white nightdress plastered to her fevered body. The flimsy material clung to her maturing form, showing the slight curve of her hips and the small mounds of her breasts, but he saw none of that. Rather, he saw the most precious thing in the world to him in pain, possibly leaving him, and his heart was gripped with fear.

He couldn't loose her. Not after fourteen years of watching her grow and learn and blossom. The hours he spent with her were the happiest he'd ever known in over 400 years. He would not let her be taken from him. But what, then, could he do? For the first time, surprisingly, he thought of the only thing he could do to save her when all else failed. He could turn her. Almost as soon as he had the thought, he felt his heart break. Could he condemn her to this dark, immortal fate? Curse her with the sadistic urges and inhuman powers of the beast that he was? She did not know he wasn't even human. Oh, how she would hate him and mourn her unfinished life. She would never bloom into a woman, never know the passionate touch of a lover, never have children to raise and love as he had done for her.

He could not do that to her and, selfishly, he could not bare the thought of her hating him when she discovered his evil secret. But then, did that mean he could part from her? He knew that she was everything he cherished in this world. He knew he would not survive loosing her.

He was torn from his dark thoughts by her soft moan. His hand lay against her cheek and she tried to seek out more of his cool and soothing touch in her delirium. That was it. He knew of nothing colder, save for placing her out in the thin snow lying on the frozen ground outside. So he quickly unbuttoned his dark coat and threw off his black shirt, exposing his marble chest. He climbed onto the bed beside her and pulled her snugly against him. She let out a sigh as her feverish flesh met his icy skin. If anything good were to come from his curse, let it be to save her life, he thought. He held her to him as though she might float away, and placed his chin on the top of her head, feeling her hands balled between their chests.

They stayed that way for hours, him soaking in the poisonous heat from her skin, her small body cocooned in his embrace as they had done years ago when she was smaller. He had not climbed into her bed for many years, despite her pleas and begging; it was inappropriate for a young woman, even if everyone believed them to be siblings. He took in the smell of her, under the unpleasant scents of sickness, and closed his eyes, praying to God that he would be merciful this one time. After a while, he drifted off into some semblance of human sleep, the rhythm of her heartbeat a reassuring lullaby.

He woke an hour or so before the dawn, the graying skies alerting his senses in warning. He was relieved to feel a steady heartbeat against his chest and looked down at the slumbering girl in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder, the tip of her nose just brushing against his turned chin. Her left arm lay across his chest, the fingers having found a piece of his hair to twist and entwine themselves in. Her body was pressed against his side and he could tell her fever had broken. Indeed, if he didn't close the window and re-cover her soon, she would likely start to shiver. This motivated him to gently pull himself away and tuck her into bed. He closed the window and relit the fire in the grate so the room would be warmed by the time the doctor revisited in a few hours. Satisfied that she was now sleeping peacefully and was no longer in mortal danger, he was able to dress and slip out of her room and into his own to escape the encroaching dawn. She would be sore and tired for a few days, but he knew she would be alright. He now could turn his attention to the future and worry about the next time her life came under threat. He had been spared from making the decision he feared most, and he remained unsure if his heart could bear to part with her.

He had to come up with a solution.

* * *

><p>It was a few hours before dawn and he stood in the great hall of his chateaux, trying to keep himself composed. There was a flurry of activity around him as the maids and footmen, who had arrived early on this special occasion, bustled about the house, trying to get everything ready and packed in the car. It was still dark out and the night was silent as the nocturnal beasts turned in for the day but the song birds had yet to awaken. The night air carried the crisp promise of winter as the last of the leaves were turning russet colors of amber and ruby. Soon the trees would be barren and the ground would freeze solid like rock. But not yet, the days still were warm enough to enjoy a nice pick nick or stroll through the gardens. At least, that is what Ilona told him.<p>

The young lady in question was, herself, flying about the house, directing the maids on what things to pack and what things to leave. She smiled at him every time she passed him by in the hall and he smiled back, but as soon as she was gone his smile fell. It was his own fault, really. He had wanted her to be a proper lady, befitting her rank. He wanted her to get out of the village and beyond Nantes even. He thought she might spend a few years in Paris where he could visit her once in a while. He had not expected her to go all the way to Rome. It was his own fault because he had been the one to teach her Latin and Italian, he was the one to give her books filled with pictures of Renaissance art and Roman architecture, he was the one who'd given her that bloody sketchpad and charcoals. He had lit a passion for art and man-made beauty in her quite by accident and now she wished to go to Rome and Florence and Venice to see the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ by the Masters there. He had told here there were few cities on earth more versed in classic art than Paris, but she had said she'd seen Paris and would see Paris again, but when would she visit Rome if not now? Besides, she wished to learn more of science and history and, while Paris was second to none in culture and art, it was a city of romance and lights. Italy held its newest inventions on pillars next to its ancient ruins. The history was more vibrant and pronounced; the culture and peoples a new and foreign thing for her.

So he had rented a townhouse for her and hired staff to keep her comfortable and safe. She would attend classes and study art and architecture and satiate all of her desires that would go unfulfilled in the French countryside. She would spend the next four or five years learning everything she could and then return home to share her marvelous adventures with him. It was his own fault, really, because she had even begged and pleaded with him to come with her so as not to be left alone. But he blamed his businesses and his condition for not going with her and she had begrudgingly agreed to go out on her own, without him. The truth was much more selfish. Rome held too may painful memories for him and too many Knights who might recognize him. He could not afford to be discovered after working so hard to make a happy life for himself and for Ilona, away from the Holy Order's harsh judgment.

Thus, he was to stay in France and it was all his fault. He could not blame her for being the vivacious and brilliant young woman he had striven to raise her to be. So he smiled and waited patiently for her to finish her last-minute packing.

"I believe that is everything!" She said from behind him. He turned to face the young woman who called him brother. But, oh, was she beautiful. Her straight brown hair was pulled back and up off of her face in a chignon under the new hat he had bought her for the journey. She sported a cream silk blouse and black skirt that reached just shy of the floor. Her shoes were sturdy for the journey, but shined to perfection. She was the epitome of a fashionable young Parisian save for her sun-kissed skin. She still loved to sit outside for hours, sketching, paying no attention to the light her skin was exposed to. He thought the warm honey color was perfect and accentuated her light green eyes and delicate lips. He could never help but smile when he saw her beautiful smile.

"Not, quite." He pulled out a dark blue box from his inner pocket. Her face lit up as she opened it and she flashed him a quick look of admonishment as he took the necklace out and motioned to place it around her neck.

"Vlad, you know you spoil me too much." She looked down at the string of pearls and he merely laughed.

"It is purely selfish, _draga_, for your joy is my joy. I simply wanted you to have something to remember me by."

"Oh, silly, it's not as though you won't survive without me. Besides, I'll write every week and you have your work to keep you busy. I'll be back before you know it." She placed her hands against his chest and placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Thank you for the necklace, it's beautiful. I'll wear it everyday and think of you, _da_?" She slipped her arms around his broad shoulders and embraced him. His arms naturally wrapped her up and he closed his eyes as he breathed in her scent one last time and listened to the familiar beat of her heart. He was reluctant to let her go, she was safe in his arms; protected from the harsh world that had shown him such pain and hatred. But he knew he must let her go.

She was soon to be of marrying age and she needed to see more of the world than their monthly trip to Nantes and a handful of visits to Paris. His fathering instincts wanted to protect her but let her grow and not be limited by his inhumanity. But there was a more visceral desire in the pit of his stomach that wanted to keep her all to himself. He blamed the later on the evilness in his heart and would not let it dictate her life. So, he held out his arm to her and walked her down the front steps to the waiting car that would take her to Nantes where she would take a train to Paris and then on to Rome. He helped her step into the leather seat as the last of her bags was tied onto the rack. The sky was starting to show hints of dawn and he new he could not linger long to watch her drive off into her new life.

"Be safe, _draga,_ and try to not get into too much trouble." He said to her, taking her hand in his and kissing the back.

"Yes, _frate_, but I go safely in the knowledge that you would fly to my side if ever I needed you." She squeezed his hand in hers and gave him a last smile. "Try not to miss me too much. I love you." She placed a last kiss on his cheek and he nodded to the driver. As they pulled away and her hand slipped from his, he smiled and waved to her retreating form and she blew him a kiss.

_Ah, his little Ina. If only she knew how true her words were. _

He tried desperately to not think that his sole joy of the last 18 years was leaving him alone again. But she would return, someday, and as changed woman. In a few more years, he knew he would no longer be able to keep up the pretense of being human, especially in the small village where rumors changed lives. He would get her back just in time to turn her away, for no sooner could he reveal his true form to her than he could watch her age and deteriorate and be taken from him. Better to set her up with a husband and a family; a family that he could think of as his own lineage, a link to the human world that would grow beyond himself, diluting his own wickedness.

Yet, his dead heart still lurched in his chest at the thought of giving her up. If he didn't know any better, he would have said he loved her. But he was a beast of darkness and was incapable of such things, but if he were ever to love anyone, it would be her. He would do anything, be anything, to stay with her even just one more year, one more night.

As he turned to go back to his study and finally wallow in the self pity he had been warding off for weeks, he was struck with a sudden thought.

_Yes, that might just be possible_.

He would need time and resources to even begin to test if it was conceivable, but he was a very wealthy man and, with Ilona gone, he had nothing but time left. He crawled into his coffin as the sun peaked over the horizon and swore to turn his encroaching loneliness into productivity.

Perhaps the return of his Ilona would see him a changed man.

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><p><em><strong>Draga<strong>_** is Romanian for "my dear"**** and _frate_ is Romanian for "brother"**

**Most other words in this story are either French or Italian and are either recognizable or infer-able from the context.  
><strong>

** (please forgive me if I've used any languages incorrectly, including English!)**

**I'm always happy to answer any questions, so long as they don't give spoilers.**


	2. A new acquaintance

**Just a note: this story will eventually become M. If I can make the M chapter(s) distinct from the others I will try and do so in order to keep as many readers interested as possible. Also, since I' posting this update much earlier than I anticipated, you'll have to be patient for the next one and the content of this chapter is subject to change until the next one is posted. **

**Thank you for the support so far, I'd love to know what you especially like or if you think anything could be expanded or clarified. **

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><p>The train station was packed. He hated to use public transportation and wished the Vatican would simply let him hire a driver. He missed the days of a team of horses and simple carriage when he could ride all day and have the horses to keep him company at night while they grazed and he slept by a small fire along the road. But the days of mass transit were at hand and, with the whispers of war on everyone's lips, he knew traveling by train was far less suspicious and much faster.<p>

At least he was traveling alone again. Or, so he told himself. Carl had retired from the hunting business years ago, his age catching up with him. He was now a plump man in his mid fifties who spent most of, but not all, his time in the Church's catacombs, testing new equipment and translating ancient tomes. He was sad to be without Carl, but he was able to move much faster and with more stealth on his own. He envied Carl the sedate life and comforts that came with age.

He, however, would never know that pleasure.

He walked across the gleaming marble floor, the click of his warn boots and the gentle flapping of his long coat lost in the busy noises of the station. He was being deployed to Paris, again; a city he hadn't seen in over two and a half decades. He had liked Paris well enough the first time and was eager to see the changes time had made upon the city he had stalked so successfully. Reports had sprung up of young men and women suffering blood loss due to unknown causes. No one had died, yet, but with little supernatural action occurring across the war-charged Europe, his skills had no better place to be used. Besides, the Order feared they had another mad scientist on their hands and he had not been as successful as they liked with the last one. He had promised not to get his face on any wanted posters this time and they had sent him off with a new gun and cash in his pocket.

The Order was fairly certain another war was looming and, though it was beyond their concern, it meant travel through Europe was becoming steadily more difficult. Soon there may be no commercial transit at all, despite the increasing number of train tracts crisscrossing the continent; he could not afford to miss his train. He wondered the time and checked the large clock looming over the station, suddenly finding himself entangled in the luggage of a young woman.

"Oh, _scusi_!" He looked down in time to see the lady in question trip and begin to fall. He instinctively reached out and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her to him to prevent the tumble.

"_Mie scusare_," he apologized. She put her hands between them, on his chest, to regain her balance and stood before him, finally meeting his eye.

She was stunning. She looked to be in her mid-twenties; her clear eyes shone with warmth and playfulness and her hat tipped at an alluring angle. She wore simple but elegant traveling clothes and carried a rather expensive-looking handbag that matched the large trunk he had tripped over. She smiled up at him and he found himself at a loss.

"_Grazie_, for a moment there I thought I was about to become intimately acquainted with the floor!" She pulled her hands away and waited for his response. When he made none, she leaned forwards slightly and whispered conspiratorially, "I think you can let go now."

He realized how tightly he was holding her—the length of her body was pressed against his and he could feel her pulse quicken in her chest—so he hurriedly withdrew his hands from their rather inappropriate location about her waist and he looked at the floor, muttering another apology.

_Was he blushing?_

"I wasn't looking where I was going. May I help you with your luggage?" he offered, hoping his gallantry and swoon-inducing smile would make up for his gracelessness.

"That would be lovely, thank you." He picked up one end of the Luis Vuitton trunk and motioned for her to lead the way. She gave him a smile over her shoulder and, to his surprise, began to head towards the Rome-Express leaving for Paris.

"Are you from Paris?" He asked with a slightly raised voice, attempting to keep up with her quick feet in the crowd.

"Is my Italian that bad?" She asked in jest, making her way to the front of the train, towards the First Class. "I would hope, after seven years, I would almost sound like a native." She stopped by her car and he handed her trunk over to an attendant to load into the luggage car.

His hands now free and the crowd less noisy, he was able to give her his charming smirk, "Not at all, it is just that you don't look Italian. No Roman nose," he whispered as she had previously. This made her laugh outright and he immediately wanted to hear the sound again. "You're headed to Paris, so I made an educated guess."

"_Bien fait,_ _Monsieur l'Inspecteur_." She said, flawlessly switching from Italian to French. An invitation to spar words with her, if ever he'd heard one. Naturally, he switched to French as well, although his conjugation was a little rusty.

"I'm taking the same train, may I see you to your box, _Madame_?" He held out his arm for her and she took it.

"_Merci, Monsieur,_ and it is _mademoiselle_." He helped her step up onto the train and followed her into the car. He followed her until she came upon her box and opened the door.

"Well then, _mademoiselle_, I have seen you safely to your seat, with no further incident, and will bid you good day." He tipped his old brown hat to her and turned to walk down the train to his own compartment.

"Wait, why don't you join me if you are taking the same train? I would enjoy the company." He faced her and could not help but notice her shapely silhouette in the light coming in through the carriage window. She was too tempting to resist, but he knew he should.

"I'm afraid I'm hardly an ideal conversationalist." He admitted. He had planned to simply pull his hat down over his face and sleep the ride away, he never was one much for chit-chat.

"Well you're doing fine so far. It's a long ride and I have the compartment to myself." She paused and he contemplated. "Besides, I believe you still owe me a favor for that close encounter," she smirked, crossing her arms, meeting his gaze from under the broad rim of his hat.

"If you insist," he acquiesced. She smiled at him and motioned for him to take one of the empty seats while she put down her purse and took off her light jacket and hat. He refrained from taking off his long coat since it concealed numerous weapons and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten this woman. Well, that or get arrested for illegal firearms on the train.

As they settled, the last "All aboard!" was called and an older porter knocked on the compartment door.

"Tickets," he asked gently. She pulled hers out and he nodded politely. When he handed his over, the white-haired man frowned.

"I'm sorry Sir, but this is First Class, I must ask you to—"

"He is my guest, _Monsieur_, and as he already has a ticket for this train, I see no reason why he cannot share my compartment." She said sweetly but authoritatively. He looked at her standing next to him and saw the calm resolve on her face. She obviously could handle herself and was not one of those shy women who giggled incessantly or fainted at the slightest provocation.

The porter turned his furrowed brow to her, then back at him, before sighing in relent. "As you wish, _Comtesse_. Let me know if I can get you anything." He bowed his head and left the box and she closed the door behind him, giving him a warm "_Grazie_," as he went.

As she made to move back to her seat by the window, facing him, he could not help but give her an admiring half-grin. ""_Comtesse_"? I thought you said to call you _mademoiselle_ earlier."

She gave him a reproaching look but then broke into a grin. "And you, _Monsieur_, have yet to provide me with anything to call you by."

"Indeed. My name is Abraham Van Helsing, at your service." He swept off his hat and bowed to her from his seat.

"It is an absolute pleasure, _Monsieur_ Van Helsing. I'm grateful for your service and companionship." She dipped her head and picked up the fabric of her skirt in a mock-curtsy. "You may call me Ilona."

* * *

><p>The first few hours passed in companionable silence and snippets of idle conversation. She asked what he did for a living and he was prepared with his cover story. He had been given paperwork stating he was a member of the Vatican Police and, in a way, this was true. Such papers gave him almost free-reign to carry weapons and cross boarders, and would gain him entry and protection from any Catholic institution in the world, a handy tool when chasing the un-Godly. His story was that he was sent on a special assignment to investigate a confidential case. No one would care too much about this vague explanation and poorly constructed fake identity, but that was the idea: to not draw attention to ones self. He felt a stab in his chest from lying so smoothly to the entrancing young woman but the story and name-change had become necessary when his notoriety would sound alarms throughout Paris. It had only been through is own stubbornness that he'd been able to retain "Van Helsing", the name he preferred and the one piece of his identity that had remained constant since he could remember. Besides, the fact his appearance hadn't changed meant he could pass as his own son; a trick he had used before.<p>

She had explained to him that she grew up in the Loire Valley, though her family was originally from Eastern Europe, and had gone to Rome to finish her education and study art. She had spent some time touring Italy as a tourist, artist, and would-be historian and she was over-eager to return home; the impending war a mere coincidence in timing. When he asked what kind of art she had been studying she happily rummaged through her bag and pulled out a sketchpad.

"I claim no great talent, but I cannot help but try to capture the beauty I see." She sat next to him and allowed him to flip through her sketches. They were meticulous and life-like, despite some being monochromatic and others being soft watercolors. She had images mainly of historic Roman buildings or picturesque Italian landscapes; each capturing a simple moment of a timeless place. They conveyed beauty and gentleness and contentment that he wished he could feel more of. He spent so much time running after evil in the dark and dank alleys of forgotten streets that he rarely paused to enjoy the sights of the afternoon sun playing through tree leaves or of the magnificent architecture of the Coliseum as it towered over the streets of Rome.

"These are quite good," his complement was honest and not just intended to flatter. "You do these for fun?" It had been such a long time since he'd done anything simply for the pleasure of it. For a brief moment his mind flashed to the last time he'd known contentment; in the arms of the dark haired, firey woman he'd killed. But he was pulled from his dark thoughts.

"Well, when I was little, my brother, gave me drawing materials and I went about drawing everything I could. He has a condition that prevents him from traveling much, so I took to sketching the people and places I'd go, so I could show them to him. It made it feel as though we were there together."

He looked over and saw her eyes staring at the sketch in her hand, but seeing a different time and place altogether. Her other hand absently played with the string of pearls around her neck, twisting the strand around one of her fingers. The smile on her lips told him immediately that she cared deeply about her brother.

"Have you not seen him since you've been in Italy?" He asked gently.

"No," she flashed him a forced smile to cover up the pain he could read in her eyes. "We write each other almost every day and he had a telephone installed in the house so I've been able to speak with him a few times. But I've been gone a long time…" she didn't finish the thought but sighed and smiled at him again, this time a genuine one that warmed his bitter heart. "I can't wait to be home and see him. He tried to reassure me in his letters that all is well, but I'm the only family he has and I fear he's felt awfully alone since I've been gone." Her voice fell and he could hear the guilt in her words. Without thinking, he put his worn hand on her thigh in an attempt to comfort her.

"I'm sure he was just anxious about your safety so far from home. Though I know, were I your brother, I would find it almost impossible to let you go so far for so long." She turned to him with wide eyes and he was suddenly very aware of how close their bodies were. The length of her leg was against his, his hair threatening to brush against her shoulder with every move he made, his hand a bit too-high up on her thigh. He could smell her, he realized; lavender and vanilla and something he couldn't name. His eyes flicked down to her perfect lips before he could stop them and the sweet smile slid from her face as she met his gaze.

But then the carriage shifted on an imperfection in the track and the moment was lost as their bodies rocked with the motion. She cleared her throat and gathered up her papers from their laps, crossing to put them back in her bag on the other side of the compartment.

"That is why I'm so eager to return home. It took all my courage to leave in the first place; all my 'sense of adventure'!" He was slowly becoming addicted to her smile and the way her eyes crinkled. "But every night when I'd climb into bed I'd miss him."

His brow furrowed and she flashed a look of panic and caught herself quickly. "I mean, I'd know that he was hundreds of miles away and just as alone as I was and I—" He smiled at her, showing he understood and she took a steadying breath. He was secretly glad to see she could get flustered; she seemed almost as formidable as…

They fell into a new silence and both looked to watch the scenery flash past the window, the rolling Italian landscape slowly giving way to the more sever shapes of the encroaching Alps.

* * *

><p>"Damn it!" He shouted, throwing the test tube in his hand across the room to shatter against the stone wall. The blood it contained left a vivid red patch against the white limestone. He rose from his stool and began to pace the room, his fists balled in frustration, attempting to keep his rage under control.<p>

_She was due back in just a few days_.

His mind raced with conflicting emotions. He had been looking forward to Ilona's return for seven years and yet he had dreaded it for almost as long. He had counted the days of their separation with such all-encompassing grief and yet he now wished she would stay away just a bit longer, just until he had had his break through. Just until he was no longer himself.

He looked to the clock on the wall and decided to finish for the night. He was so close to the answer, and yet it eluded him, ripping at his patience and resolve. He had hoped, he had dreamed, that if he had worked long and hard enough that surely there was a way, surely he could find that special combination of matter and energy that would resolve everything.

He let out a calming breath and made his way up the hidden stairs to his study. This night, there were no letters written in her familiar hand to brighten the wee hours of the morning. Rather, she was currently en route and had no more need for their regular correspondence. No, in just a few agonizing, fleeting days she would be here herself, a grown woman of 25, his _raison d'être_. And he would be the same.

He had converted the secret chamber where his coffin resided into a laboratory. With the help of a few locals and technicians, who were either compelled or paid to forget its location, he had even outfitted it with electricity and a gas line, to light even the darkest corner and provide power to his various appliances. Ahh, if he had only had the ability to wield the power of a lightening storm the last time he had tried an experiment, things may have turned out differently. But that was a long time ago and a far cry from France. And he had long ago come to terms with his failures on that endeavor and, given his current objectives, was rather relieved that he had not succeeded, though it broke his heart at the time.

But this time was different. He had learned a great deal from _Heir Doctor_ about blurring the lines between life and death and this knowledge, combined with the current advances in medicine and the clean, steady stream of electricity running throughout the ancient chateau, made him quite formidable.

And yet he was, so far, unsuccessful.

Perhaps it couldn't be done. Perhaps the deal that had been struck was more powerful than human ingenuity and invention, more binding than his own determination. Perhaps he would never find relief from the monotony of infinite nights. Perhaps he was nothing but a cold, cursed shell that resembled a man but was so much less.

And yet, he had reasoned, if that were true, how could he have such feelings? Fears of loss and loneliness, hopes of unforeseeable futures, instincts to protect and soothe and comfort. Were these not the emotions of man? Was he truly a soulless beast that could kill without regret and see no beauty but in pain and destruction?

No. He had seen beauty in the smile of an innocent babe, had felt joy and worry and pride. Had held her when she cried and had given her everything and more than she could possibly have wanted; all without thought of himself or some ulterior motive. In these years that she had been gone, hadn't he felt the tug of his heart towards her side, felt the need to protect and comfort her, felt her missing presence in the house? He knew he had.

The emotions she evoked in him were so much more than the lust and hatred and entitlement that his brides, or the Valerians, or his undead children had ever instilled in him. She made him so much more than he had been.

And he wanted to be so much more for her.

And so, armed with vials of blood, the most cutting-edge lab equipment, and the life-giving spark of electricity, he had set sights on a seemingly impossible task. He would find a way to be with her as she deserved, find a way to rid himself of the darkness, of the loneliness, of the self-loathing that had been his only consistent companions these past centuries.

He would find a way to become human.

* * *

><p>"Well, <em>Monsieur<em>, I believe we must part." They stood in the bright and bustling terminal _d'Orsay_, the great clock standing over them in a reflection of their meeting. Their train had finally arrived in Paris where she would wait for her train to Nantes in the morning and he had an investigation to begin. He stood, hands in his pockets, mind furiously trying to think of what to say. During their brief interlude, he had become hopelessly enthralled by her beauty, strength, and wit. He was desperate to find some reason to remain in her presence for another hour. "How long will you be in Paris?" She asked, noticing his lack of speech.

"I'm not sure," he said, trying to use his most charming smile to cover his embarrassment, "however long my business lasts. It could be weeks, it could be months."

"Well, then perhaps I will see you before you leave."

"Indeed, I would enjoy that." He said, making her blush slightly.

"Where can you be reached?" She said, hiding a small giggle at his expense. He was so inexperienced in this. His eyes opened wide before he pulled out his paperwork and gave her the address of his hotel. "I will be sure to write you if I come to town."

"Yes, well…" he couldn't think of what to say. He finally decided to go with a classic tip of the hat "It was a pleasure, _Comtesse_."

She curtsied slightly and gave him a genuine smile. "Ilona, please. And the pleasure was all mine." She picked up the edge of her trunk and, before he could draw three breaths, she was lost in the crowd. As he turned to leave the terminal, he said a silent prayer that it would not be the last time he saw her face.

_What an interesting man_, she thought. She sat in the back seat of the car, her driver taking her to the hotel where she would spend the night before heading home.

_Home_.

Her heart was heavy with the ache that would soon be soothed. For so many years she had been a person torn in half—her body was in Italy, but her thoughts were in France. Every day she had to convince herself that it was worth it, worth feeling the hole in her chest, worth returning to an empty townhouse, worth eating dinner alone. The letters and the few phone calls had been enough to stop her from booking a seat on the earliest train, but only just.

She had made friends; she had gotten to know the cook and housekeeper that worked in her home; she'd even gone out for a café or dinner with the eligible, elite young men of Rome who had sought out the mysterious French heiress. She had flirted, she had laughed at their jokes, she had graced their arms at all the fashionable parties, and she had turned them all down in the end.

They didn't understand that she had no plans of finding a husband in Italy, no matter how attractive and charming they may be. She had a completely different reason for her sojourn; and it wasn't to study art as she had originally claimed.

She was pulled from her thoughts as the car came to a stop outside the hotel where she had always stayed when she'd visited Paris with Vlad. She smiled at the memories. The president of the hotel welcomed her and asked after her trip and she humored him as she had known him since she was a little girl.

"How long will you be staying with us, _Comtesse_?"

"Just the one night, Henri. I leave for Nantes in the morning."

"We have missed you. _Le Comte_ has not come to visit us these past few years either. I hope he has been well."

_As do I_. "I'm sure he's just been busy at home. You know how his condition makes coming to town difficult." They stood outside her usual suite and he bowed and excused himself, wishing her a safe journey.

She entered the room and sighed. Had she slept any better on the train, she was sure she would have been too excited to even lay down. However, she had only succeeded in nodding off for a few hours, the watchful—but not alarming—gaze of her new-found traveling companion had made her self conscious. It was not that she feared him. Indeed, she may play the part of the privileged damsel well, but she could fend for herself. Rather it was that she felt scrutinized, as though he were trying to solve her like a puzzle. It was not the first time she had caught a man off guard, but he was certainly the first to show no intimidation to her quick wit and sharp tongue.

She had Vlad to thank for those. She had him to thank for a lot of things, for everything. She knew why he showed her with gifts, why he spoiled her, why he was both parent and friend and teacher. He was an isolated man with no other family, no other ties to the world except a few hired staff and distant business ventures. She carried the burden of being his sun with a light heart and nervous stomach, for she was happy to do it, but terrified of failing him.

Without conscious thought, her hand went to the necklace around her throat, twisting the strand around her finer while her mind was distracted.

What was worse, however, was that he had no idea she needed him just as much as he needed her.

He was all she had ever known before leaving for Italy. He had spoiled her, reprimanded her, inspired her and taught her everything he could; molding her into the woman she was. She had no one else either. The village children were scolded by their parents for playing with her growing up, since she was a noble and they were just townsfolk. She had always been like a fine china doll—everyone looked at her with reverence and longing, yet feared breaking or soiling her if they got too close. Her friends in Italy had only been superficial; attending teas and lunchons, gossiping about the women who were absent, sizing up the women who were present. The men had wanted her for her body and money, and a few for her brains and love of beauty; but they still considered her a thing untouchable, as though she were set upon a column or behind glass where they could see but never touch. Even Ms Van Helsing had given her the look as though she was something beyond his grasp, but at least his compliments had all been heartfelt or in amiable jest.

Yes, he had been entranced by her quick smile and mesmerizing eyes, she had noticed. But he was a man and could hardly be blamed for noticing a beautiful woman, she reasoned. But he had met her eye and tried to see what made her tick. Had she not been raised by the most enigmatic man she'd ever met, she was sure Van Helsing would have picked her brain in mere moments and found no other interest in her. However, her guardian's mysteriousness had rubbed off on her and she could not help but be two steps ahead in every conversation.

After hanging up the dress she would wear in the morning, she rang the bell for service and a brief moment later a bell boy was knocking on her door. She ordered a light supper and then lay down, wanting to just rest her head for a time while her dinner was being prepared. She was going home for the first time in seven years. She wondered if he'd changed at all and hoped he approved of the changes in her. To that end, she shifted on the bed to get more comfortable—she wanted all the beauty sleep she could get before the long day ahead.


	3. A return

He was startled by the hurried knock on his door, an impressive reaction from a man who was used to being the one doing the scaring. He attempted to sound his usual, disinterested self in replying, "Yes?"

"Her car is pulling up, _Monsieur._" She said gently through the door. He laid down the letter he was reading and stood, the picture of elegance and nobility. The simple truth was, he was terrified.

He was, for once, glad his heart didn't beat—for he new enough of the physiological results of stress and he knew none of them would have helped in this situation.

He carefully straightened his jacket and ran his long fingers through his hair, in an unconscious effort to look his best without the help of a cursed mirror. He took an unneeded steadying breath and calmly walked down the hall from his study. Just as he turned the corner onto the grand stair landing, he heard the front door open and close. He looked down and saw the figure of a woman standing in the front hall, face obscured by a small hat, taking off a traveling jacket and gloves. He paused at the top of the stairs, hand grasping the banister and faintly making sure he didn't crush the marble into dust.

As she finally removed her hat, handing it to the footman, she turned to look up at him. As her shining, clear eyes met his, the world seemed to contract around him. And when the warmest, widest smile split her face, just for him, he thought there was nothing more beautiful in the entire world.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there, so close and yet still so far away from eachother, but suddenly he was moving quickly down to meet her as she crossed the black and white marble floor. And then, finally, all the fear, all the anxiety, was banished by her warm arms and sweet smell and familiar heartbeat.

"Oh Vlad," she whispered near his ear, the tips of her warm fingers burning against the back of his neck and through all the layers her wore like a shield. He would have held her tighter, if he was not afraid of crushing her, but her grip around him was strong enough that he had no worry of her slipping away again. He could feel a tear slide between their cheeks and was not sure if it was hers or his own.

"Let me look at you." He took her by the shoulders and pulled her away so he could see the changes in her face. He was stunned by what he saw. The girl he had known since her infancy was gone. The woman before him had the same dark, silken hair; the same sage green eyes; the same full lips. But, she stood an inch or so taller, her cheekbones were more pronounced, her dress and blouse showed off the fully developed body she carried elegantly and gracefully, and her skin was kissed with the hues of the Italian sun. The child-like wonder that had been slowly fading from behind her eyes and the corner of her mouth had fully given way to the mysterious and alluring smiles and glances of a woman. "But what is this? Where is my little Ina? You cannot possibly be the girl I sent to _Roma_ to study art and history."

She laughed and he was pleased to see the sound itself had not changed, though he suspected her voice had settled into a warm mezzo-soprano range. "And who is this dashing young man, for you cannot be my Vlad—it's as though you stepped through some magic mirror and appear to me unchanged from the day I left!" She lifted a warm hand to his cheek; her words were in jest, but he suddenly fought to keep his face from revealing the pain that raced through his chest.

He hurriedly changed the subject by motioning her towards the dining hall. As they sat and ate, they fell back into the repartee they had enjoyed years before. They laughed at Ilona's stories of the young men and women of Rome. Vlad told her of changes in the village, Nantes, and his businesses in Paris. They both grew solemn as conversation inevitably turned to the encroaching war and what changes it might mean for them and the people of France; what it might mean for the world, if it escalated to that.

He was relieved with the ease they found in conversing, as though no time had passed at all. And yet, something much worse was beginning to make its self clear.

As he'd observed, she was no longer a young girl, but a woman I her prime and, oh, how she had bloomed. He noticed his eyes would begin to travel from her stunning eyes to linger on the curve of her neck or the rhythmic swelling of her chest as she breathed. He was entranced when her fingers began to idly play with the string of pearls he had bought her all those years ago. He felt the unwelcomed and almost forgotten pull in the pit of his stomach as her delicate scent traveled to him across the table, carrying with it the deeper, subtler, spicier scent of blood.

He pinched his eyes closed and consciously stopped breathing, hoping she wouldn't notice. But alas…

"Vlad, are you quite alright?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, of course, Ina_._ Forgive me."

"Have you had trouble sleeping, again?" She gave him the concerned look he had so missed, and it made him smile. Of course she would not forget his questionable sleeping habits. How many times had she crept into his study before dawn to find him writing away or sat by the dying fire, reading? How many times had she stirred when he slipped from her slumbering side, having promised to hold her small form, protecting her from monsters under the bed? An ironic request he had not failed to smirk at bitterly.

"No, no," he began, but she gave him a reprimanding look and he confessed, "well, no more than usual."

_At least she had not noticed his hungry gaze_. As he, once again, steered the conversation to a more pleasurable topic, he thought, more so than before, he had to find a cure; rid himself of the beastly urges he had tamped down for years and were suddenly rising to the surface.

He would not let his demons blemish the one pure thing he had ever achieved in this world.

* * *

><p>He could not get her eyes out of his mind.<p>

He found himself in a daze as he walked the worn cobblestone streets of Paris. His first goal was to re-acquaint himself with the city, to better manage his movements in a time of need. He was armed to the teeth with various weapons designed to kill or at least ensnare any possible enemy; natural or otherwise. The city was as bright and vibrant as ever, even more so with the installment of electricity in the city lights and cafés. The music, the dancing, the lovers in the streets seemed so far removed from the violence and anger stirring just a country away. And yet the sights and sounds were distant to him.

How had he, in just a few short days, become so entranced by the young woman he'd met in Rome? It had been so many years since he had even thought of such feelings, so long since he'd let himself imagine. He had sworn, after what had happened with Dracula to never bring another woman into his life. His profession, his lifestyle, his very existence made it impossible to think of such things as a wife or family.

But he was so tired.

Once he'd realized, a few years after Transylvania, that the curse had not been lifted; that he would continue to not age; that the Vatican would not let him, a weapon of God, find rest, his heart grew bitter. He knew, had it not been for Carl's companionship and levity, that he would have turned into a wretched man long ago. But his grumpiness didn't suit him and, in the company of such an entrancing woman as Ilona, his more dashing side still made brief appearances. And since the Church would always find him, should he run, he tried to make the most of the life he led.

But on some nights, when he looked at the mutilated body of an innocent towns person, or he saw the pain and fear of loss in a family's eyes; when the terrible monsters he fought reverted back to just a simple man, in death, he was no better than his greatest foe. Dracula had wanted a family. He had killed only as much as he needed to survive. He had been a husband and father and ruler in his own sick, twisted way. Could van Helsing say much better of himself? He was a tool, the arm of "justice" that brought nothing but death and destruction with him. He brought nothing into the world—he was a mere puppet. The only time he'd ever touched anything good and pure, he had killed it more swiftly than the demon who tormented her had.

Yes, on those nights when innocent, tearful eyes look at him in terror, he can almost sympathize with Dracula.

He ducked into a bar called "Le Dé d'Or". In the 18th arrondissement, located in the shadow of Sacré Coeur, it was in the heart of the area where the mysterious cases of blood loss had been reported. He had an appointment in the morning to meet with a local detective who had handled the initial reports, but for now he wanted to hear more first-hand accounts.

After chatting with a few of the locals, and buying a few rounds of drinks to loosen their tongues, he had a better understanding of what had happened, but even less idea of what was behind it. According to those closest to the victims, the attacks had happened late at night on their way home. None of them could remember actually being attacked; just that they woke in the dark alleys they walked every night, dizzy and confused, with needle marks in their forearms. The first victims that appeared in the hospital were treated for dehydration, but were in no serious danger. After a number of similar cases, the hospital reported the incidents, supporting the stories of the few victims who'd also turned to law enforcement. Who knew how many poor souls had simply continued on home and forgotten their mysterious encounter?

As he stepped out of the loud and crowded bar, he put his hat back on his head, and turned down the street to return to his hotel. After a block, the glowing white façade of the magnificent church upon the hill came into view and he paused in his step to gaze at it. Sighing, he turned on his heel and went to the door, unsure if it would be open this late at night. But as he approached, he saw the door stood ajar and the soft, familiar glow of candlelight falling on the step. He always found comfort in the worn wooden benches and quiet serenity of churches, and new that spending an hour in deep thought here would help calm and focus his mind. He dropped a coin into the collection box, the sound resonating off the vaulted ceiling like a gunshot, and took one of the slender white candles that sat beside it. As he crossed to the statue of the Virgin Mother, he bowed and crossed himself before placing the candle in an empty holder and lighting it.

How many candles, such as this, had he lit in churches across Europe? How many lights had shown for her? He sighed and closed his eyes, which did nothing but bring the memories into sharper focus. With every candle he sent a prayer to Anna, hoping she found peace, begging for her forgiveness.

He had not yet heard a response.

He made his way to a pew and took a seat, hoping the familiar scents and almost imperceptible sounds of a house of God would help him sort out what he had learned. But as his eyes lost focus and his breathing slowed in concentration, his mind came alive with images of blood and death, demons and monsters. He rubbed his temples and tried again to focus, but his thoughts turned, instead, to flashes of pale skin and ebony curls then clear green eyes and full lips.

With a groan that bounced off the stone floors, he tilted his head back in defeat. Even in the most sacred of places he could not rid himself of his sins. He knew he would find no answers this night.

* * *

><p>She took a steadying breath and met her own gaze in the mirror above the ornate sink in the down stairs hall bath. She saw her face was flushed and splashed a handful of cold water over her cheeks.<p>

_You can do this, Ilona, you must_.

But it was proving more difficult than she'd anticipated. He was exactly how she'd remembered him, and yet so much more. The lines around his mouth told more than a mere smile could, his voice was richer, his eyes held so much knowledge and feeling. And how could she have ever forgotten the smell of him or the way his icy fingers always sent a slight shiver along her spine?

And she had been so relieved to find him unchanged, to see that their separation had not made him cold-hearted or miserly as she head feared for the last seven years. They had taken up their old discourse as though it were a favorite coat; comfortable and effortless to slip back into. She was home and she could rid herself of the lingering fears that something would be awkward between them. She was truly _home_.

And it made her plans all the more heart-wrenching to contemplate.

She could not miss the way he'd scrutinized her; the way his hand had naturally sought hers out when he led her to dinner; the pain she had caused by her long absence evident in his dark eyes, mixed with the relief of having her back. She'd consumed most of the conversation over dinner, along with a number of glasses of robust French wine. She hoped her blush would be blamed on the heady effects of one too many drinks, and not on the nerves that were writhing in her stomach.

But she had come too far to go back now.

She dabbed the droplets from her face and put her smile back in place. When her reflection was once again to her liking, she turned the handle and stepped back into the hall. She'd heard him head upstairs, so she turned and ascended them, heading towards his study. The door was ajar and she simply pushed it the rest of the way open, a compliment about the electrical fittings half out of her mouth when her eyes found him, leaning heavily on the desk, his back turned to her.

"Vlad!" She rushed to his side, her hands reaching out to meet his shoulders, lest he begin to fall. "Are you alright?"

He quickly flashed a half-smile at her and stood straight, turning out of her worried embrace. "Yes, of course, Ina, I didn't mean to worry you. Just a bit dizzy, probably no thanks to that second bottle of wine we opened." He tried to move around the desk, to put distance between them, but her hand grabbed his arm and led him, instead, to the high backed leather armchair that sat by the hearth. He let out a genuine laugh this time, "I assure you I'm fine, _draga_." But she gave him a silencing look and moved to poke at the embers in the grate to try and restart the flames. He'd forgotten that, despite being centuries younger than him, she could be quite the mother hen, even as a child. A comfortable silence settled over them as they both stared at the flickering light of the fire.

She decided that it was too soon to tell him. They'd both had a bit too much to drink and had only just been reunited. She knew she couldn't wait too long, but a few days to settle in would do them both some good, especially if he wasn't feeling well—she had a feeling the chardonnay was not too blame for his "dizziness". This helped settle her stomach somewhat, the pressure of such a life-changing conversation relieved for the night.

"It's been a long time since I've heard you call me that," she looked over her shoulder to give him a warm but subtle smile, breaking the silence. "I missed it."

"Did I not call you 'Ina' in my letters?" he asked, rhetorically, knowing full well that every one of the hundreds of letters they'd sent between each other was either addressed to or signed _Ina_.

She turned to face him and clasped her hands before her. "No, not that," He rose and met her beside the mantel, his hand subconsciously rising to move a stray strand of hair from her cheek. She tried very hard to hide the shiver that raced across her skin.

He frowned slightly at her—she must not have hid it well—but the lines between his brows disappeared as his eyes traced the lines of her face. She wondered what he saw there. When she tried to read the marks the past seven years had carved into her visage, she saw a beautiful mask of a confident yet aloof woman hiding a hollow, scared little girl who was so far from home. She had hoped, when she returned, that the sadness, the distance in her eyes would vanish and only the playful mystery that had resided in their bright depths since she was a child would remain. But she had searched them earlier, and her smile still didn't quite reach their corners.

She prayed that he saw nothing of her pain in them, as she could so easily see the pain in his.

"I'm so glad you are home, _draga_," he almost whispers since he is close enough to feel her breath on his cheek.

"Me too," Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn't pull her eyes from his. For a moment, for a brief moment, she thought he had something more to say, something more to do, but then his hand pats her shoulder and he waves her off to bed. He leaves the study before she can even move.

Maybe she won't need to wait a few days after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry about the late update and short chapter. This was originally going to be pretty short but I've gotten some great reviews and want to flush it out a bit more. Plus the anticipation is half the fun, right?<strong>


	4. An attraction

The next two days passed with little of consequence. Ilona reacquainted herself with the house, admiring the changes and updates Vlad had made in her absence. She went into town and was warmly greeted by all the townsfolk, regaling them with stories of Rome and Tuscany and Venice and handing out little trinkets she had brought back from her travels.

Ilona had always been an unnamed idol of her little village. Not only as their own member of the nobility or as a patron of the town hospital and orphanage, but as a kind, warm, sympathetic young woman that they felt was a shining symbol of their little corner of the earth. She stopped by the _boulangerie_ and the post office and then made a quick round at the hospital before handing out sweets to the local school children. Whatever whispered words may be said behind closed doors about her cold and bizarre brother, these people genuinely loved and admired Ilona and she wholeheartedly returned their affections and tenderness. She was so glad to be back with her friends and loved ones again, her joy shone forth from her eyes like beacons in a storm. No one left her presence without sporting a smile, a happy word on their lips.

These same two days were spent in the lab for Dracula. As many hours as he had spent pining for the return of her, he now feared being in her presence. That night after his near fatal error, he had hesitated as he dressed for dinner, but when she rapped lightly on his door and peaked in her head to ask if he was almost ready, he saw no reservations or questions in her eyes and was somewhat relieved. She had not noticed anything was amiss. Their dinner passed in intimate banter again and he agonized over staying with her longer or trying to get as far away as possible within the confines of the great house. His serum was advancing—the concentration he achieved when she was out of the house drove him to think faster, more creatively. But it wasn't enough. He had no way of gauging how long it would take before he could rid himself of this curse and no way of knowing if it would be permanent. But he had hope. And, as he met the warm gaze of the one thing he coveted most, he was given motivation.

She returned to the chateau in the evening of the third day with a smile undimmed by cares or fears. As her maid helped her dress for dinner, she sighed with a contentedness she had not felt in years. Had she been a younger girl, or perhaps not a well educated lady with a title and a handsome fortune in her name, she might have skipped down the stairs to supper. However, while it would bring a chuckle to his lips, she could already hear Vlad's voice scolding her gently for such improper behavior.

As they sat down over their food, he asked her to recount her activities in the village and she merrily elaborated on the people she had seen, the differences she had noted, the gifts she had both given and received. It was as though she were a child again, divulging all the secrets of the imaginary friends she had played with down by the river.

"Oh, Vlad, how could I be so daft? I've completely forgotten to give you your present!" He waved a hand to dismiss the need for any such token, but she persisted. "No, you cannot deny me this. I will be appeased and you have no power to stop me." She was absolutely right, of course, so he reluctantly, though with secret anticipation, agreed to be presented with this _gift _after drinks.

An hour or so later, they headed up the stairs and she lead him to her door where he stopped short. It was not at all proper for a man to enter a woman's bedroom, but before he could remind her of this, she had already crossed to her dressing table which was still covered with an assortment of things she'd yet to put away while unpacking. He reluctantly crossed to her side, the reprimand dying on his lips at the sight of her excitement.

"Ah, here we are!" She turned to face him but did not jump at his closeness. She had grown up around his eerily silent steps and had, instead, learned to rely on other senses to determine his proximity. When he looked down she was presenting him with a large, leather bound book, roughly 45 by 60 centimeters. He made no move to take it from her, but instead she laid it flat on her bed and opened the broad cover to a few pages past the beginning. He knew immediately what this book was and was transfixed by the bright, bold strokes on its open pages.

This was a book of sketches.

Ilona had always excelled in everything she attempted as a child. She was an avid rider, skilled musician, learned scholar, and all around talented young woman. But ever since he had given her a sketch pad and charcoals, her true passion had been for art. How could he have forgotten her very reason for leaving to go to Italy, the history of which was surpassed by none other in the arts of sculpture and painting? She had gone to the home of sweeping vistas and renaissance classics to learn and study and grow. And, as he looked at the image before him, he could see the expertise her delicate hands had gained in her years of study.

Sketch was too broad a term for the picture before him. It was truly a work of art. He wanted to look closer and admire the details of image but she had already turned the page, showing him an equally skilled watercolor. Scenes of people, of places, of ancient buildings and quiet conversations that he had never seen; the Roman Forum at dawn, the sky shades of grey and violet, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the arches of the Coliseum, children playing on the bank of the Tiber, a couple huddled close at a table outside a café. There were hundreds of such images, in a variety of mediums, each filled with attentive care and an eye for everyday beauty. His cold fingers reached out to stroke the brilliant blue sky behind towering columns that he could only dream of. It was just like when she was a little girl and drew him the daylight he could not experience himself.

He was so absorbed by the paintings he almost jumped at her soft voice, "I wanted to give you Rome, to have you there with me, to see what I saw, feel what I felt." He tore his eyes away to stare into hers, suddenly hyper aware of how close they were, the right side of her body pressed against his, her warmth spreading into his flesh, her heart beat resonating in his own still chest.

"These are beautiful, _draga_." He could feel her breath on her face and the smell of her was suddenly drowning him. A voice in his mind told him to step away, that this closeness was both inappropriate and dangerous for them both. Yet his feet were planted firmly in that spot, and she did not seem to be moving away either. It was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and pull her body flush against his so he could feel all of her.

He lost complete track of the passage of time. They may have stood that way for centuries, unmoving, unchanging, on the precipice between comfortable familiarity and the terrifying unknown. Then suddenly, he was on fire as her lips were pressed against his.

* * *

><p>She was suddenly transfixed by those eyes she knew so well. His body was like the cool, unyielding statue of a god. She felt as though his strength, his sturdiness could shelter her from everything and wished he would gather up her small, week form and let her melt into him. She wondered what it would be like to have his body hovering over hers, her heated skin pressed against his deliciously cool flesh, his strong grip sure and yet gentle, his kisses devouring her very soul.<p>

Yet it was his eyes that stole the words from her lips, kept her rooted to her spot, staring up at him over her shoulder. He stared at her, a mixed look of awe and fear, pain and desire; she could see the war he found himself waging within his own mind. She had hoped this gesture would land the fatal blow, would show him what she felt, what she wanted. What she had always wanted.

She could not pinpoint the exact moment she had realized Vlad was not really her brother, at least not biologically. Yes, they both had dark hair, but hers was a warm chocolate compared to his ebony strands. They both had piercing eyes but his were cool and hooded where as hers were bright and mysterious. Their skin tones were incomparable, but that could be attributed to his allergy to sunlight. His cheekbones were more pronounced and jaw line more square, the shape of her eyes was more exotic and her lips fuller. They did not resemble each other, yet there were many siblings who could claim a similar issue. They were year apart in age, but that was also not unusual nowadays. But as she grew older, she could not help but notice every variation, every incongruity between their faces and bone structure.

At first she thought they just may have looked like each of their parents. After all, they were dead and she had no pictures or portraits to compare their features to. Perhaps they were only half siblings, maybe his mother had died and their father remarried or she may even be illegitimate and he had never wanted to reveal her muddied genealogy. They had almost never spoken of the rest of their family—Vlad had made it clear they had no remaining relatives and she had trusted him, content to have him be both parent and friend.

And then she had begun to feel something else entirely for this kind, gentle, powerful man who mysteriously struck fear in the hearts of everyone but herself, who took such care to teach her and yet spoiled her with gifts of dresses and lavish trips to Paris. She had written it off to burgeoning hormones and had tried to divert herself with thoughts of the young men in the village; had even kissed the boy would come to shoe the horses under her favorite tree by the river. Yet she could not stop her thoughts, her fantasies, her dreams from turning to his cool touch and hypnotizing voice.

It was then she had realized she could not stay in this house with him any longer. She had to tear herself away before she acted on these possibly sinful impulses. She may not have thought of him as her brother for many years, but that didn't mean she had proof of the fact, and he had never given her any indication he reciprocated her feelings. Indeed if anything, he still saw her as a child and not the young woman with needs and desires she had become. And so she had devised a plan.

She would leave, go far enough away so that he could not visit her and she could not be tempted to run home even briefly. Either her incestuous thoughts would fade away in the splendor and majesty of Rome and all it's diversions and attractive young men. Or she would finally return home, unarguably a fully grown woman, and would convince Vlad to rid themselves of their roles as siblings and embrace her with a different kind of love.

Well she had gone to Rome. She had flirted and conversed and even toyed with the men there and yet none held her attention or stirred the fire within her belly that always arose when she thought of his gaze or the sound of his voice. So she had come home with a resolve that would either destroy her or fulfill her every desire.

She had not been disappointed with what she had found so far. He had looked at her as he had never looked at her before. She had caught his lustful, wandering glances at dinner; had felt his conflicting desire to kiss her; could feel the tension currently keeping his body against hers, unable to turn away.

She would never wish him pain, and yet was both elated at the prospect of his returning her feelings and satisfied that he was finally feeling a bit of the frustration she had felt for the last 10 years. She knew her actions would probably change their lives irrevocable and, hopefully, for the better. She could not bear to leave his side again, but she also could not merely stand by as his companion and not try for more. And here was her chance.

The book she had spent seven years compiling held all her hopes and fears and desires in its brushstrokes. She had poured her love into its pages, frantically trying to show him the world she would give him, wishing to be his sun, his warmth, his light. She wondered if he could read her face as clearly as she could read his, but knew she had always surprised him with how well she could tell what he was thinking. If he could read even the smallest piece of her thoughts, surely he could see the love she held for him, the passion that was threatening to rip her apart if she was forced to contain in much longer.

They stood there, in her room, the presence of each other threatening to overwhelm them, searching for something, anything in each others eyes that would confirm what they both wanted. And then her eyes flicked down to his lips and suddenly their worlds and bodies collided in a mind-shattering kiss.


	5. A progression

**AN: sorry for the delay. not had much time for writing. No writers block with this one, just trying to maneuver all my pawns into place :) Love gets you faster updates!**

Her hot mouth seared against his as his icy fingers slipped into her carefully constructed tresses to force her lips even closer to his own. The taste of her went directly to his head like no drink ever had, sending warmth through his lifeless body. She was surrounded by the smell of him and everywhere his fingers met her skin she felt tingles like static shocks.

For the briefest, intoxicating moment, he let himself be lost in her warmth and comfort.

For the most fleeting, perfect second of her life, her heart rose in her throat as all she had dreamed of seemed to be falling into place.

And then suddenly he tore himself from her embrace and was across the room in the blink of an eye, his hands on the stone wall behind him, grounding him, keeping him from crossing back to her. They were both breathing heavily; not from lack of air but from the rising tides of passion in both of their bodies.

"Wh-," he began, trying to form a coherent thought. He could hear her racing heart and it was overwhelming him even across the room. He closed his eyes tight to try and clear his mind and he opened them to see her hand hovering over her lips, which were not even swollen from the too short kiss. He saw her swallow and then stand a bit straighter. "Stop!"

She was about to step closer, unsure if she was simply going to kiss him again or try to explain—but his shout stopped her in her tracks.

"Vlad, I—"

"I'm sorry," he simply said and then ran from the room, leaving her stunned figure alone in her room. He continued to run down the hall and out the front door, fleeing into the night. She remained unmoving at the foot of her bed, staring into the space where he had retreated to after the kiss.

* * *

><p>What had he done? WHAT HAD HE DONE?!<p>

He screamed into the night air, falling to his knees and grasping his head in his hands when he reached the bank of the river. Oh he truly was the devil.

In a moment of weakness, his baser desires had taken control of him, probably ruining forever the one thing he had ever loved. How could he have been so careless? How could he take advantage of her in such a way? If only he were human enough to throw himself into the steady flow of the river before him and perish within its watery embrace…

And yet, a timid voice inside his head spoke up, and yet…

She had not run from him in fear and disgust. He could not recall who had closed the distance between them, exactly, but she had not pulled away, not had a look of hatred and betrayal in her eyes. They had held pain, but not hatred. Perhaps she had also wanted…

His thoughts flew apart at the mere idea of it and he could not think reasonably.

But no, no. Such a pure, bright, good thing could not love him in such a way. No, it must have been pity that stopped her from slapping him and running away. Of course, that must be it. She had been shocked, and pitied the sick creature he was—not a man, but no longer a complete monster—had seen the conflict in his eyes and felt sorry for his twisted desires because he was her brother.

Indeed, maybe she did love him, had told him as much, but not in the way he now fully realized he wanted her to love him. He could never have her in that way, he knew. But perhaps… perhaps he could earn her forgiveness. That was a part of love, was it not? To forgive the ones you love even when they wrong you?

Yes, he would earn her forgiveness; would not let his lust overcome him again; would become human and be the brother she needed, the brother she wanted. He may have broken her trust, may want a life with her that could never be, but he may yet salvage her innocent love for him.

He slowly gathered himself up off the damp grass and calmly straightened his hair and coat before turning back to the house. As the cool glow of the electric lights drew nearer, he hesitated. Maybe he would wait a few hours, until she had gone to sleep, before returning to the house. He did not think she would want to see him again and now that he was calmer, he realized he could still taste her, could still feel her hot lips against his own. He decided he would quench the physical demands of his body so he would hopefully be able to keep his hands to himself the next day, if she would even see him.

As he sated his lust in the arms of the village whore a few hours later, he could not help from calling out to her as he came apart, "_Draga_".

* * *

><p>Ilona stood frozen for what felt like eternity.<p>

She had finally done it; she had torn aside the veil between love and lover.

Or so she had thought. She had been elated that he had kissed her back with such passion and zeal, affirming all her beliefs and confirming that her plan had worked. He wanted her! He was not her brother! He would never have kissed her like that if they had truly been blood-relations. And even if it turned out they were, she no longer cared. She would do whatever it took for them to be together. She had been working towards this one goal her entire adult life, and most of her youth; now that there was even a slight chance he felt the same, she would never settle for anything less than being his in every way.

She had been disappointed he had pulled away from her so quickly, yes, but this did not deter her. She had felt his desire and understood that he had not shared her way of thinking very long. She may have wanted this for years, but until a week ago he still thought of her as a child and a relative, even if he knew a different truth.

Now she must not let him try to take back what had happened. She knew him—was not surprised to hear him storm down the stairs and slam the front door as he flew into the night. He was probably out in the garden or down by the river, tearing his hair out, trying to come to terms with these new thoughts and feelings.

She couldn't help but smirk at the idea of him, the aloof and debonair Count Dracula, disheveled, conflicted, and (hopefully) horny, pacing the dewy grass. Such an image stirred her from her stiffness and she sighed, a wicked smile flitting across her face as she looked about her room as though it should have changed from the brief encounter. She spied the open book of drawings on her bed and decided to leave it in his room to consider. She felt that, more than any words she could try to use, her art could reveal her desires.

But she would wait until the afternoon when he had had the chance to calm down and think logically. She would creep into his study as he slept the sunlight away and leave it on his desk as a sign of her approval of the evenings' events; a promise that she would not let him turn away so easily.

Yes, she thought, she would finally see that she got what she wanted.

* * *

><p>He returned an hour before dawn, hurriedly and silently making his way through the house, into his study, and down the secret passage to his lab. He had found only fleeting satisfaction in his impromptu liaison and already his body and mind, unbidden, had begun to churn with thoughts of her.<p>

Had it only been a few days ago that she had returned, his Ina, the girl he had raised since infancy? He was truly a sick and disturbed monster, to lust after the thing he had tended to with such care and unselfish affection. Was it truly only a decade ago that he had climbed into her bed and held her when she was sick with fever? Felt her small hands entwine in the loose strands of his hair to find innocent comfort in his presence? Such a span of time meant nothing to him, and yet it seemed like a lifetime ago.

He would not let the demon that dwelled still within him have her.

He would rid himself of its malevolent influence and be simply a man; be the brother she had known and had loved, rather than the monster she pitied. He could not have her look at him again with her bright eyes clouded by worry and sadness. He would not face her as anything less than she deserved. He would perfect his serum; he was so close to the answer. He would seek her forgiveness and, should she grant him that absolution, would spend the rest of his days protecting her from any other evil that might try and claim her.

Frantic, he began concentrating his formula, boiling down herbal tinctures, selecting his freshest, youngest sample of blood and filtering it to rid it of any lingering impurities. The sun rose on the other side of the thick stone walls and still he fiddled and measured and stirred. He added nightshade juice and more foxglove extract. The idea crossed his mind that he was not unlike that mad doctor, Heir Frankenstein, as he tried to force life into dead cells. Indeed, the twisted man had used the power of lightening to create his own abomination of living death. He did not want to have to wait for a thunderstorm and had decided that he would try to shock himself with the electrical fittings for the house just after injecting himself—perhaps the combination of healthy blood, stimulants, and power would be the formula he needed. If he could simply get his heart beating again, he felt sure he would be free of his damned curse and return to being a human man.

Finally, his new and improved formula was ready. The clock on a nearby table told him in was about noon and his impatience convinced him he would have enough time before dinner to recover from any ill effects. He was too eager to find the solution to his centuries of woe, so he filled a syringe, stripped off his jacket and shirt, tied a tourniquet around his arm and injected the solution. It burned as it traveled up his arm, and as he pumped his fist, he felt it begin to slowly spread to his shoulder and across his torso. It was if flames licked the inside of his ribcage and he almost doubled over with the pain of it. But he was determined.

With the hurried steps of a madman, he crossed the room and readied the ends of the live wires. He had nothing to fear except failure and yet so much to gain. With a steadying breath against the fire in his veins and the soon-to-be-agony of the electric current, he held the two ends against the flesh of his chest and side, imagining the zap of electricity passing through the cold still muscle of his heart.

With a flash, he was overwhelmed. The cold, clean, slicing pain of the electricity made his vision turn white; the fires in his veins dimmed by the explosions in his nerves. He could not move, could not think as his entire being was consumed by the flow of the current. And then suddenly, with a distant *pop* and flying sparks, his muscles relaxed and he collapsed to the floor, the lights extinguished and the smell of burning flesh hanging in the air.

He woke up some unknown amount of time later, every muscle in his body sore and reluctant to obey his commands to push himself up off the floor. With excruciating and methodical effort, he managed to drag himself to the foot of the stairs. He blacked out again for what felt like a few moments, and then determinedly began to pull himself up, step by step, pausing after each, his muscles rippling with residual spasms with every centimeter.

Finally, with an unnatural moan, he managed to make his way into his study, laying his face on the rough surface of the antique oriental rug. He could feel the edges of darkness creeping back into his consciousness, and with a final burst of willpower, managed to shut the secret door with his foot before succumbing to oblivion.


End file.
